


I Will Stand Here and Burn in my Skin

by missparker



Series: Blood on the Floor [1]
Category: Major Crimes (TV), The Closer
Genre: Domestic, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, Mother-Son Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 08:24:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3202319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missparker/pseuds/missparker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What’s going on between them anyway? What has she done?</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Will Stand Here and Burn in my Skin

_Yes and I try to ignore_  
_All this blood on the floor_  
_It's just this heart on my sleeve that's bleeding_

**Burn - Ray LaMontagne**

*

Chief Taylor sends her home. From a management perspective, she understands why - she’s been here the longest, going on 23 hours now, and she makes the most money so she’s expensive to have around, especially when clocking overtime, but it still stings like a personal attack.

“Go home, Captain, get some sleep. Come back fresh on Monday.” His tone doesn’t leave a lot of room for argument. 

“I should just…” 

She argues anyway, of course.

“Sykes can finish up the paperwork,” Taylor says. Amy, rather traitorously, Sharon thinks, nods sympathetically.

“I’ll make sure everything gets filed,” Sykes promises. “We’ll take care of it, Captain.”

It’s always jarring when a missing person turns into a found corpse, but it’s doubly awful when it’s a child. She’d spent the last four of the 23 hours with the father - Cecilia's father. A single widower and his 8-year-old daughter had been his entire world. 

“I have nothing,” he’d said, rubbing a trembling hand over his face. 

These were the kind of cases that kept a person up at night. Sure they’d caught the bad guy, but the girl was still dead, the father still empty inside. Some justice didn't feel very just.

“Hey,” Flynn says, touching her hand. Amy and Taylor are still looking at her, now with more apparent concern. She’d drifted off a little there.

“I am tired,” she says, graciously. “You’re right, Chief.”

“See you Monday,” Taylor says and high tails it out of her murder room, his task complete. Sykes looks like she wants to reach out but doesn’t, sits back at her desk and faces her computer again. 

“You really okay?” Flynn asks. 

“Of course,” she said. “I mean. Yes. I suppose.” 

She doesn’t feel all right. She feels wrung out and desperately sad - she just thinks of that girl’s father going home to his empty house. That used to be her, for years and years and now she is spared it because of Rusty but one day he will leave too, just like Ricky and Emily and the thought, the very thought makes a sharp pain flare in her chest, a pain so real that she brings a hand to the exposed skin between her collarbones, where the neckline of her blouse dips lowest. 

“You want me to get a black and white to take you home?” he asks. 

“No, no, I’m okay,” she says. “I’m just going to get my bag.”

He still trails her to her office. Watches her fumble around for her purse, drop her keys once, and then again before she even gets back to the doorway.

“Sharon,” he says. “You want me to take you home?”

“No,” she says. “That’s quite alright, I just….” But then she thinks about it, the long elevator ride down, the walk to the parking garage, the fact that they’ve looped back around to the start of another day so she’ll be sitting in rush hour traffic and she just can’t. “Yes, Andy, you know what? Yes, please.” 

He smirks. “You got it.” 

She wants to lean against him in the elevator, but she doesn’t. She leans against the wall instead. Down in the parking garage, he opens the passenger door for her and she drops her bag in first and then collapses into the seat. Lets her head fall back against the headrest, her eyes slip closed. The car smells like him, Provenza too if she’s honest, but she can pick out Flynn’s cologne, just a little spicy and familiar. He gets in and starts the car. 

She makes herself open her eyes and finds her phone in her purse. 

“Rusty,” she says when she catches him watching her. “I like to tell him when I’m on my way home.”

“It’s good that he’ll be there for you,” Flynn says.

“No, actually,” she says regretfully. “He has class all day, but I know he worries when I don’t come home at night.” She cocks her head a little, like a shrug. “I can sleep, anyway.”

He pulls out of the garage onto the street, turns left. So he’ll try to take the freeway. It’s going to be congested no matter what, she doesn’t care which way they go. The black and white probably would have gotten her home fastest, but now that she’s sitting and no longer in control, she doesn’t care how long it takes. 

“You hungry?” he asks. 

She is, a little. She tries to decide if she’d make it through any kind of meal. 

“I have food at my place,” she says. His face falls just a little, but he recovers quickly.

“Good,” he says.

“We could eat it together, though,” she offers. 

“All right,” he agrees, the crooked smile settling back onto his face. “I can cook for you.”

“You cook?” she asked, smiling. 

“Well, I can fry an egg, anyway,” he promises and she laughs though it turns quickly into her smothering a yawn.

“I’m too old for all nighters,” she confesses.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m too old for all of it,” he says. 

“Do you think about retirement?” she asks, a little surprised. She shouldn’t be - she thinks about it, too. “Are you planning on it sometime soon?”

“Oh, I think about it,” he says. “I’ve gotten close but then, usually something comes along that changes my mind.” He glances at her and smiles. 

“What would I do if I retired?” she muses. “My kids are never around, I don’t have any grandchildren. Rusty doesn’t need much supervision, anymore. I guess I could take up knitting.”

“Sit on your front porch, rocking in your old wooden rocker while your hair goes gray,” he chuckles.

“I would never let my hair go gray!” she says, reaching up to touch a red lock. It’s vanity, sure, but she doesn’t allow herself much. She spends a lot of money keeping her red hair red. 

The freeway slows down as more cars start to merge and Andy sighs. She feels like she's slumped in her seat but can't seem to straighten up. She can't wait to get out of these nylons, into something soft and comfortable. 

"Just close your eyes," Flynn offers. She takes him up on it, reaching over blindly to pat his arm. She finds his hand instead, resting on the gearshift. She gives his fingers a squeeze. 

oooo

She wakes up with a start, just as they are turning into her neighborhood. She'd heard the bloop of a siren and it had pulled her violently back into consciousness.

"Just a traffic violation," Flynn says, but he's got a line of concern between his eyebrows. 

She'd been dozing deeply enough that she'd been dreaming of little girls, their wrung necks purple, their dresses torn, their cheeks still wet with tears. She is ill-equipped to deal with nightmares, is still learning to compartmentalize the daily horrors away - she'd seen unpleasantness in Internal Affairs, but not usually so close up and the sheer volume of the worst of people that Major Crimes deals with is extraordinary. Even after over year in the department, she still always has nightmares about the children.

"You okay?" he asks. They're on her street now and she fumbles for her purse with shaking hands. "Sharon?"

"Yes, fine," she says. They approach the gates of her condo complex and she pushes the button on her keychain to open the gate. Flynn drives through, pulls into a spot designated for visitors. 

"Do you still want me to come up?" he asks. 

"Yes," she says. This she doesn't have to think about - the unsettling dream plus her empty condo would overwhelm her, she worries. She'd give into the pressure building up behind her eyes, her trembling lip. Flynn goes around and opens her door while she undoes her safety belt. He closes it behind her, too, and she hefts her bag onto her shoulder. They take the elevator up instead of the stairs and when her hands tremble a little, he takes her keys and unlocks the door for her. 

Her face burns and she takes a deep breath and tries to keep it at bay.

"Hey," he says. She pushes past him inside, drops her purse on one of the barstools and holds onto the cool counter tightly. His warm hand on her shoulder is too much and the sob escapes her before she can help herself. He spins her around and puts his arms around her, one hand on the back of her head. "It's okay," he says.

"She was only eight," Sharon manages. Her face is pressed into his chest and her glasses are digging into the bridge of her nose, but maybe that's what she deserves. A little pain, a little embarrassment for not saving a life. For ruining what is left of the life of that poor father. 

"And we put her killer away for life," he says, his hand dropping from her head to her back. 

"We could have-"

"She was already dead," he says. "When we got the call, she was already dead. You know that. This isn't your fault."

It's cold comfort.

"The kids are always hard," he says. He drops his chin to the top of her head and she feels the movement when he speaks. "That doesn't go away." 

oooo

Provenza and Flynn offer to take Rusty to the Dodgers game and Rusty accepts. It means a lot to Sharon that they still take an interest in the boy, that what is important to her is important to them.

"We could probably rustle up another ticket if you want to come too, Captain," Provenza says, though it sounds like a bit of an afterthought.

"Oh no," she says with a smile. Flynn and Provenza are decked out in Dodgers gear, blue and white from head to toe. Rusty has a ball cap on too, an old Dodgers cap that had belonged to Ricky once upon a time. He looks uncomfortable in the hat, a little unnatural, but he is trying and that means a lot to her. Effort from both sides. "You boys have fun. I have plenty to do here." 

It's pleasant to be home on a Saturday. If luck is on her side, she'll get to spend the whole day doing as she pleases. She sends up a little prayer that no one manages to get themselves murdered today and hugs Rusty, reaches out to touch Flynn's forearm in thanks. She nods at Provenza and he looks relieved that she doesn't make contact with him, too. 

"We'll be home by dinner," Flynn says. 

"Great!" she says. "I'll cook. You can stay, if you want. Wouldn't that be lovely, Rusty?"

"Uh, sure," he says.

"I'm not sure-"

Flynn elbows Provenza hard and cuts him off by saying, "We'd love to, Captain." 

"See you later, then!"

She spends what is left of the morning cleaning the condo - running the steam mop over the wooden floors, scrubbing down the shower in the guest bathroom and then the sink. Ricky stays sometimes, but he has never lived in this condo. She'd sold their craftsman house in Lynwood when both kids had moved out and bought this condo, thinking it'd be easier to manage alone, and it is, but she spends a lot more time cleaning now that a teenage boy lives with her. She always finds hair in the sink from him shaving, toothpaste on the mirror and dirty clothes on the floor. There's a small stacked washer/dryer unit in the hall closet, so she dumps the dirty clothes and all the towels from Rusty's bathroom into the washer and starts a load. 

She changes the sheets on her bed and leaves a fresh set of sheets in Rusty's room - last year, she'd made up his bed for him, but he's 18 now and not so desperate for mothering, so she's started giving him a wider berth. She cleans her ensuite too, though it's not nearly so bad as the other - just requires a quick scrub to the toilet and wiping down the counter and sink. 

She goes to the dry cleaners to pick up her weekly bundle of suits and blouses and one sweater that she'd gotten Rusty for Christmas. She drives with the windows of her car cracked letting the warm, dry air in just enough to ruffle her hair and keep the inside of the car fresh. She goes next to the organic market and picks up stuff for dinner - a bag of red potatoes, a whole chicken, enough fresh veggies to make a hearty salad, a loaf of freshly baked french bread. A bottle of white wine for herself and Provenza, a bottle of sparkling apple cider for Flynn and Rusty. 

The bagger packs away her things into the canvas sack she'd brought in and tells her to have a good day.

When she's putting the bag into her trunk, her cell phone rings and she tenses, the comfort of sunny Saturday evaporating quickly away at the daunting prospect of a dead body. But when she fishes the phone out of her purse, it's her daughter and she feels a wave of relief.

Answers the phone, saying, "Hi, baby!"

Savors the phone call as she does the free time, the sunshine, the rest of the day stretching before her.

oooo

She hears Rusty's voice before she hears his key in the lock. She's got an apron on and she's halfway through chopping vegetables for the salad. She sets her knife down and wipes her hands on the apron as the door opens and then men spill in.

"Guess what?" Rusty says. "We won!"

"Oh thank the lord!" she says, only a little sarcastically. Rusty's face is pink from being in the sun all day and he has a brand new Dodgers hat on, though backwards. Flynn grins at her and even Provenza is looking jolly. Rusty disappears down the hall toward his room.

"It smells amazing in here," Flynn says.

"Come in, come in, it's almost ready, you guys have great timing," she says. "Did you have fun?"

"Beating the Giants is always fun," Provenza says. "Beating the Giants is what I live for."

"Good to know," she says. 

"How can we help?" Flynn asks. 

"Well," she says. "You could set the table, I guess. You know where everything is, Andy."

"Is that so, Andy?" Provenza says. Sharon ignores it - Provenza still holds onto her as the image of the wicked witch, perhaps, and the transition to friendlier terms between her and some of the squad has been harder for him. From what Flynn has told her, it took Brenda awhile to win him over, too. She'd keep chipping away. Flynn shrugs off his bright blue coat and hangs it on the back of one of the dining room chairs.

Something buzzes from down the hall and Sharon calls, "Rusty! Take those clothes out of the dryer, please!"

"Got it," he calls back.

"So domestic," Provenza mutters. Flynn ignores him, moves past her in the kitchen to the cupboard where she keeps the dishes. He pulls out four and shoves them into Provenza's hands. 

Sharon dumps the veggies into the wooden bowl with the lettuce just as the oven dings. She pulls out the chicken, smelling of rosemary and citrus and perfectly golden brown. 

"Impressive," Flynn says. 

"Oh," she says with a smile, setting it on the stove to cool off a little. "Easier than it looks." 

Rusty comes back in, clapping his hands together enthusiastically. "Time to eat?" he asks.

"Almost," she says. "Did you hang those towels back up?"

Rusty spins around and disappears down the hall again. Even Provenza chuckles. 

"Okay," she says, "Lieutenant Provenza, you may open the wine and pour yourself a glass if you'd like some. Andy, we still need silverware and there is cider for you and Rusty in the refrigerator." She carries the salad and the basket of warm bread to the table. Goes back for the mashed potatoes keeping warm on the stove and then says, "Oh shit!"

"What's wrong?" Flynn asks, moving to her elbow.

"I forgot to make the gravy," she admits.

He smiles, squeezes her elbow. "We'll use butter," he says softly. She nods and can't help but glance at his mouth.

"Okay," she says. 

"Okay," he smiles. "Let's eat."

Flynn offers to stay and help with the dishes but Provenza throws such a fit that they don't. Rusty helps, though, loading the dishwasher and leave the roasting pan and the big salad bowl to soak in the sink.

"Did you have a good day?" she asks him, wiping down the dining table. She'll have to wash the placemats and the cloth napkins that they'd used. 

"Yeah," he says. "I mean, baseball is okay but it is way more fun to go to a game than watch it on TV."

"I agree," she says. 

"And, like, my mom always had these really like, terrible boyfriends who only wanted to drink or do drugs or sit around and watch TV. They certainly never wanted hang around with me." He flops down on the couch.

She frowns at the odd parallel that he has drawn, but she supposes any sort of older male role model is still somewhat of a novelty for him. 

"I'm tired," he says.

"You got a lot of sun," she says. "More sunscreen next time, kiddo."

"Yes, mom," he says, but it doesn't even sound that sarcastic. She touches his head lovingly when she walks by. 

She's washing her face clean of her makeup when her phone buzzes on her nightstand, so it takes her a few minutes to see it but when she does, she can't help but smile. 

It's from Andy Flynn - he thanks her for dinner and then, while she's holding her phone, another text message comes through. He invites her to mass tomorrow with him and his daughter and her new husband. 

It's not her church, but she doesn't mind that. She finds herself responding yes before she really even thinks about it. 

oooo

He picks her up around 9:15. She wears suits to work, jeans on her days off, and dresses to church. This dress is moss green, tight around her waist and flowy around her calves. It reminds her, a little, of Brenda, the sort of southern style she'd been raised up with in Atlanta. But what's everyday for Brenda is church wear for someone born and raised in California. Instead of a tailored blazer, she puts on a cream colored sweater and low heels - gold bracelets and earrings that dangle. It's always good to overdress a little for an unfamiliar church.

"You look great!" Flynn says, and then, "No Rusty?"

"I already made him go to a Catholic high school," she said. "Let him sleep." 

Mass is mass, the same everywhere and just different enough that she feels self-conscious every time she stands, kneels, when they file down the aisle to take communion. Flynn escorts her to their pew with his hand in the middle of her back and it feels nice.

They haven't even been sitting back down for a whole minute before her purse buzzes at the same time his pocket does. They look at each other, resigned. Just her phone or just his is one thing, but both of them is unmistakable. Both means death.

Flynn kisses Nicole's cheek, Sharon apologizes and they slip out just as the last row of pews is finding their seats. 

"Captain Raydor," she answers, shielding her eyes from the bright sun.

The crime scene is only three miles away from the church so they head straight over. It’s not unusual to see jeans on Sundays, t-shirts, people dressed down. Amy has on yoga pants and running shoes, Julio is the only one in a tie. He’d probably been at home, not out and about. 

“Wow,” Amy says when she see Sharon. “That dress is like exactly the same color as your eyes!” 

It’s not quite a compliment, not even a criticism, so Sharon doesn’t quite know how to respond and just stands there for a moment, perplexed. Amy grins at her, big, and Sharon decides to just let it pass.

“Catch me up, Detective,” she says, pulling on a pair of gloves. She hears Flynn snicker behind her and throws a warning glance over her shoulder. They’re all waiting for Amy to mature, a little. She’s not a bad detective, though not yet a great one. She’ll improve considerably if she doesn’t voice every thought that flits through her mind. 

Of course the dress is the same color as her eyes, that’s why she’d bought it.

There’s blood everywhere, smeared on the walls, the floor, splattered across the beige furniture, soaked into one corner of the rug, turning the intricate pattern dull and dark. The room smells like death, like metal and rotting meat. All the doors are open, but worse than that, they’re used to it. It’s not that the smells no longer bother her, that would be inaccurate, but they no long bottom out her stomach, make her lunch lodge into her throat to be swallowed down again and again. 

When she crouches down by the body, she first gathers her skirt and tucks it up between her knees so it doesn’t brush the ground. Getting blood out of clothes is hard enough, and she can’t dry clean it away - she’s ruined enough things with other people’s blood. 

The body is male, caucasian, not yet forty, she would say. His wife is somewhere, sitting on the back of the ambulance perhaps. Apparently she’d been beyond distraught when the first responders arrived - hyperventilating and she’s still crying, Sharon sees when she peers out the window. Breathing into an oxygen mask. That’s a good sign, her crushing, all-consuming sadness. It’s reassuring to see wives who still love their husbands.

But then again, this is Los Angeles and nearly everyone is an aspiring actor.

By the time the coroner comes and the body is taken away, the wife has gone downtown with Amy and Julio, and Provenza and Tao have gone off to talk to the neighbors. Flynn hangs around because he is her ride.

“What do you say we pick up some lunch before we go back to the office?” she asks. She’s starving; they’d blown by lunch three hours ago. He agrees and they stop at the deli and get a sack full of sandwiches. It’s the kind of thing, she thinks spitefully, that Brenda never did. Brenda was single-minded which made for an efficient but tense murder room. Sharon plans to be here for a long time and she wants her team to stay happy, to be comfortable enough to approach her. 

“Thanks, Cap,” Tao says when she hands him pastrami on rye. 

She and Flynn eat in her office. She doesn’t think much about it except for that he follows her in and sits across from her, clearing a little space for himself on the edge of the desk. They leave both doors open. Amy comes with an update and says, “Sorry to interrupt.”

Flynn says, “That’s okay, go ahead.”

And then, only then, only after going to church, spending the evening together, him holding her while she wept, the wedding, only now when Flynn easily answers for them both, does Sharon start to worry.

What’s going on between them anyway? What has she done?

oooo

She takes Rusty shopping with her. She’s taken him shopping before for school clothes, and when she first got him, to get him things that were clean and fit him better, jeans and t-shirts and shoes not worn through in the sole. His own toothbrush. Necessities. But today, she tells him that she’s going shopping and would he like to come?

“Shopping for what?” he asks. 

She shrugs, feeling whimsical. “For whatever.”

Maybe he hadn’t grown up in a stable home, but Rusty is smart enough to know that if he goes with her, she’ll probably buy him something, so he agrees. 

She takes the to The Grove because it’s easy enough to park and there is plenty there to suit the both of them. She thinks she’ll give him some cash and send him on his way, but he doesn’t ask and seems happy enough to stay with her. 

“Let’s just start big and go to Barney’s,” she says, feeling mischievous. 

“You and I have a very different idea of starting big,” he says.

“There’s an Apple store,” she says. “We could start there?”

“Barney’s is fine, Sharon,” he says.

“Or Topshop? Isn’t that what kids like these days?” she asks.

“Sharon, stop, oh my god,” he says, laughing. “Don’t try to be hip.”

“I’m hip!” she says.

“Let’s go to Nordstrom,” he says. 

“Really?” she asks. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I like the little restaurant they have there.”

“You do?” she asks, already slipping her arm into his and nudging them in the right direction.

“Yeah. Someone once took me there and it was nice. Like, it could’ve been a bad memory but it turned into a good one.” He shrugs, she feels it all along her side. “Whatever.”

“I like Nordstrom,” she says. “Let’s start there.” 

They wander for a while - she starts out with clothes for him but he says he doesn’t want anything here, that it seems too fancy.

“Are you saying I’m too fancy?” she says, indignant but not really.

“You are fancy,” he says. “But you make it work.”

So they move along to the women’s section. She goes to the suits, not that she’s hurting in that department, but she does get tired of wearing the same old thing. She catches Rusty look at a price tag and then cross his eyes a little and gag. 

“The thing about expensive clothing, Rusty,” she says. “Is that it lasts a very long time. You can buy something cheaply made but it will fall apart very quickly and you’ll have to replace it and in the long run, you end up spending more.”

He pulls a face. She picks up a charcoal colored blazer off the rack,

“I can spend four hundred dollars on this blazer because it is an investment. I can wear it with many outfits and because of the classic cut and good tailoring, it will almost never, ever go out of style.” 

“Like, I understand your argument but I’ve just never had four hundred bucks to blow on one piece of clothing.”

“That’s fair,” she says. “But it still works with spending fifty dollars on something instead of fifteen.” She puts the blazer back and Rusty points to something behind her.

“What about that?” he asks.

“What?” she says, turning to look.

“The purple one,” he says.

“It’s really more of an eggplant,” she muses, looking it over. “You like it?”

He shrugs. “Lieutenant Flynn likes when you wear purple.” 

She freezes, her hand on the sleeve of the thing. 

“That’s silly,” she says, dropping it, turning her back on. Rusty looks smug.

“I knew it! You like him, too!” Rusty grins, satisfied. She feels her face grow warm, tingling on her neck, the tips of her fingers, her forearms. She’s so pale, there’s no hiding the blush so she turns back to the blazer. 

“I do like Lieutenant Flynn,” she says. “He’s a dedicated officer with a great deal of experience. I think Lieutenant Tao is funny and sweet and very, very good at his job. I am very fond of Amy and I truly, truly adore Detective Sanchez.”

“Hey, what about Lieutenant Provenza?” he asks. 

“Lieutenant Provenza has,” she smiles at him, over smiles maybe. “...many, many admirable qualities, I am sure.” 

Rusty laughs.

“And I hope that the squad likes me back, but I do not lose sleep over it, and neither should you.”

“Nice save,” he says.

“Now, this is a nice piece, but eggplant is not my color, so lets go look for something else, shall we?” 

In the end, the only thing she purchases is a latte for herself and one of those iced, frothy coffee drinks covered with whipped cream and chocolate sauce for Rusty. They sit at a little round table and enjoy their coffee and then head back out into the shopping center, into the twinkling lights that come on around them as the sun sinks low into the sky. 

oooo

Between murders, there’s still a lot of paperwork, something she remembers well from her previous job in Internal Affairs. Paperwork is something that simply comes with being management and while some of it has been automatic and computerized, most of it hasn’t because it’s too expensive and because in a lot of ways, the LAPD does something a certain way because they’ve always done it a certain way.

Her division fills out some of the paperwork, but she still has to sign off on it and she has her own batch of forms to fill out as far as closing cases is concerned, paperwork for the D.A.’s office, and none of that even takes into account things like budget reports and staff evaluations. 

Today they haven’t picked up a case and she’s even lent Amy over to SIS to fill a need while one of their officers is recovering from being shot. Provenza and Buzz are in electronics, going over old footage for some cold case project he’d bestowed upon himself and everyone else is at their desk, working.

Julio is clearly on the phone with his mother, but he _was_ working earlier. Tao is playing with a new device, sticking little barcodes onto things and scanning them into the computer like they’re some sort of library. Taylor had been making noise about the evidence database, how out of date it was, how vulnerable they were when things went missing. She’d stayed right out of that. They’re all just killing time, waiting around for someone to die. 

Flynn is at his desk, too, in a dark vest and a canary yellow shirt, a yellow and purple striped tie. She likes when he wears bright things, has a little fun. So many men in plain dark suits in the building - Flynn had always stood out to her, even when it had been for the wrong reasons on the other side of an FID interview. She tells herself not to, but she keeps glancing up at him through the window, studying him as clandestinely as she can. 

She’d glossed over Rusty’s insinuation but his words still lingered. “ _You like him, too!_ ” 

Sure, Flynn had warmed to her in the last couple years. The level of distrust and dislike they’d started with was unsustainable. They’d both had to soften when she’d taken over the division or else he would have had to leave. Transfer or, more likely, retirement. So yes, he certainly likes her _more_ than not at all. Big deal. She glances up again but he isn’t at his desk. He’s darkening her door. She tries not to jump, to show that he’d sneaked up on her not because he’d been stealthy, but because she’d been lost in her own thoughts. 

“Yes, Andy?” she says. “What is it?”

“Just stretching my legs,” he says. “You want a cup of coffee?”

She glances at the big clock on the wall - three o’clock. Late but not too late. It could give her the push she needs to make it to five. 

“Sure,” she says. 

“I was,” he stops to shuffle his feet a bit. “I was going to splurge and walk down to the cart. You want to go with me?”

“Oh,” she says.

“I mean, I’ll bring you something if you don’t want to go, but it’s nice to walk around a little,” he says. 

“Okay,” she agrees. “Let me just grab my purse.” 

“No need,” he says. “On me.”

She stands up, smooths her dress down. She’s wearing lavender today with a soft gray sweater, one of the drapey ones that hangs down to her knees. She has a jacket if they get called out, but this is more comfortable for desk work. She tightens it around herself now. 

“Okay,” she says again. “Thank you.”

She has on higher heels than she’d usually wear - she doesn’t mind a heel but when she’s going to be really on her feet all day, walking over god knows what to god knows where, she’ll wear something a little more sensible, but these go so well with the outfit, towering metallic gray, pointed toes and such a satisfying click when she walks. It evens out their heights a little and it’s nice to almost look him in the eye. 

“We’ll be back,” Flynn calls as they head toward the elevator. 

Tao grunts in acknowledgement but no one else says a thing. She guesses they're used to it - and maybe it’s not so different as it was before. Chief Johnson had her right hand man, had always taken Gabriel with her everywhere. Flynn is just her right hand man, her go to guy, her…

Flynn shouldn’t be her anything, she knows better than that. 

Downstairs, they step out of the doors into the sunshine. The cart has a few people milling around but in the afternoon it’s not bad at all. They wait in line together but Flynn orders their drinks without asking her because he already knows what she likes. When he hands it to her, she clinks her paper cup to his and says, “Cheers.”

“You want to sit for a moment?” Flynn asks. Under the shade of an awning there are a few round cafe tables and black metal chairs and the chairs are hot to the touch when the sit. She eases into hers, tugging her hem down as far as she can, but the backs of her thighs still sting a little and behind her knees starts to sweat. She wishes she’d had the foresight to bring her sunglasses, but she just squints at him instead, the sky so wide and blue behind him. 

“Nice day,” he comments.

“Oh, Andy,” she says, so gently, more gentle than she probably needs to be. “The weather?”

He looks a little ashamed. 

“Why don’t you just go ahead and tell me what you brought me down here to say?” she offers. “I’m ready to listen.” 

If he’s surprised by her direct approach, he doesn’t show it and he shouldn’t be. Directness is one of her trademarks. No beating around the bush in Internal Affairs, no time to walk on eggshells in a seventy-two hour reporting cycle. She’s gotten more delicate about how she handles information since working in Major Crimes, but with her staff, she’s straightforward, always. 

“Captain,” he says and then starts again. “Sharon.” 

She gives him a smile, a real one, something she gives mostly to Rusty these days and it feels good to branch out a little. 

“I just want you to know that I’ve enjoyed spending time with you. Both, both inside and outside of work and I just hope that what Nicole and Rusty said over Christmas doesn’t make you feel like you have to reconsider our friendship.” He twists his coffee cup a little, eyes on the table for a moment. When he looks back up at her, he’ll see that she’s struggling.

“Andy,” she says, and her voice breaks a little. It’s hard not to think about where she started with Major Crimes, the way the room would go quiet whenever she entered it, the way they had all closed ranks whenever she’d ask a single question and only did they start to give her a break when Brenda had realized that she’d needed Captain Raydor and not a moment, not a single moment before. 

And now they’re sitting here in the sun, drinking coffee, and he’s looking at her like he never is going to leave her behind, like she’s his team and he is hers and it breaks her heart. All the love in her life is breaking her heart. 

“I’m not good at making friends,” she says, her vision swimming a little. She could cry but she won’t let it come to that. Emotions are a luxury she is only beginning to be able to afford. “So when I make a friend like you, I am not likely to let them go.” 

“Good,” he says. “I’m glad to hear it.” 

“Good,” she says softly.

“And hey look,” he says. “I go to the movies and eat dinner with Provenza and no one calls it a date so probably that’s just some sexist nonsense, right?” he says. 

“If anyone were to question our conduct,” she says leaning in conspiratorially, “that is certainly what you could say.” 

“How would you feel about dinner tonight?” he asks, hopefully. 

“People gotta eat, right?” she says. “Come on, we have to get back.”

He holds the door for her and then extends his arm into the elevator and lets her walk in first. When the doors close without anyone else coming inside, she leans over and kisses his cheek. Just a friendly peck. 

“What was that for?” he asks, surprised and smiling.

She tilts her head. “No reason.”

That’s not true, of course. In a way, Andy Flynn is what Jack could have been if he’d pulled his life together. Quit drinking, quit playing cards, started to care about his kids again. Andy feels like a second chance in more ways than one. Andy feels steady and safe - Andy is someone she can take to mass, who will drive if she asks him to, who can help her carry the groceries up the stairs with no complaints. No surprises, just steady support. If that is what she wants. 

“Thanks for the coffee,” she adds. 

They leave together that night. Flynn tells her he’s made reservations nearby. She texts Rusty to see if he wants to join them and he replies with _haha, gross_ which she takes as a no. The restaurant they land at is Italian, unsurprising, and one she’s been to many times before. Humans are repetitive, predictable and none more so than law enforcement. They pass their car off to the valet and head for the door.

“Hey,” Flynn says, looking into the big open window of the warmly lit restaurant. “Isn’t that Chief Howard?” It still feels weird to hear him called that but yes, it’s Fritz and when they take a few steps closer, she sees her.

“And Brenda,” she says, uneasily. She stops short and watches them for a moment. She hasn’t seen Brenda in months, and only a handful of times since she’d left the LAPD. Once in the courtroom, once she’d been in the car when Fritz had stopped by work on a Saturday and they were all pulling overtime. She’d waved and stayed in the car which was just as well. 

Now, she’s certain it’s Brenda though she doesn’t quite look like herself. Her hair is long and stick straight and she’s leaned back in her chair, almost in a slump with one arm crossing her body and another holding a huge glass of wine. Fritz doesn’t look happy either, leaning in and say something to her. She doesn’t seem to react to the words at all. 

“Maybe we shouldn’t…” Sharon says, but then Brenda turns her head, looks out the window and sees them. Her body doesn’t move, but her face changes in surprise. She looks back at Fritz right away and when she glances out again, Sharon points at her and then cups her hand around her own neck. The hand signals for ‘you’ and ‘hostage’ - she’s asking if Brenda needs help.

Brenda minutely shakes her head. They’ve always been good at understanding each other. That had never been their problem.

“We’ll go in, pretend we don’t see them, it’ll be fine. It’s a big enough place. I’ll ask to be seated in the bar,” Flynn says, because he can read the situation well enough, too. He’s known Brenda for a long time. Had seen the start of Fritz and now can see, well, whatever this is.

“Okay,” she says. She tilts her chin up, they walk in and angle themselves away from Brenda and Fritz’s table. Fritz has his back to the entrance and when the hostess checks them in and takes them to their table, it’s toward the bar and the other side of the building from Brenda and Fritz.

“Small town, huh?” Flynn says.

“Apparently,” Sharon says. “We’re not far from work.” They’re closer to the D.A.’s office even still. 

“It’s strange,” Flynn says. “To go from spending hours and hours a day with someone to not seeing them at all.”

“You miss her?” Sharon asks, a little surprised. She knew that she herself would be a hard sell to the squad, but all loyalties aside, Chief Johnson hadn’t been the easiest woman to work for. 

Flynn shrugs. “She’s a good lady.” 

Sharon’s eyes crinkle up a little. “And what will you say about me when I’m gone?” she asks. 

“Great legs,” he says. “Legs that launched a thousand ships.” 

She tries not to smile, flattered, but then there’s a loud noise from across the room, like glassware shifting on a hard surface and then Fritz walks out the door. 

“I’m going to-”

“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll order.”

She slips into the vacant seat by the window, ignoring the curious looks of the people seated near the little table. Brenda is still holding her wine glass and doesn’t look up. 

“Do you have a car with you?” Sharon asks, finally.

“I can take a cab,” Brenda says. 

“Come sit with us,” Sharon says. “We have a chair and you can finish your dinner.” 

Her shrimp pasta is nearly untouched. Brenda looks up, her dark eyes cold. 

“You and Lieutenant Flynn, huh?” she says and it comes out nasty, but maybe anything would have.

“We’re just friends,” Sharon says the party line, not that it’s much of her business. Brenda sulks. “Brenda,” Sharon says, using her name quite deliberately. “Please join us. Please.” 

“Fine,” she says. She reaches into her big black purse - nice to know somethings don’t change - and pulls out a wallet, drops several twenties onto their table. Then she picks up her plate and keeps her wine and says impatiently, “Well, where we goin’?”

Flynn half stands when Sharon returns with Brenda in tow and says, “How’s it going, Chief?”

“Just Brenda Leigh now I guess,” she says. As soon as she sets her plate down, though, she looks like a bird trapped inside a glass building, flighty and on the brink of panic. “Oh, I am just ruining your date, I should go!” 

“Not a date,” Flynn says and Brenda rolls her eyes. 

“You don’t work for me,” she says. “I don’t care what y’all get up to.”

“Sit down,” Sharon orders and when their waiter passes, she gets his attention and orders a couple cosmopolitans thinking that Brenda has probably had enough wine. 

“I got you the spinach ravioli,” Flynn says to her now. 

“That’s fine,” Sharon says. 

Brenda looks down at her own food. 

“How is the D.A.’s office?” Flynn asks. 

“Oh, fine, fine,” she says. “Lots of paperwork, not a lot of time out of the office.” 

“That must be a refreshing change,” Flynn offers and Sharon winces.

“How’s Rusty?” Brenda asks. “I meant to… but I went to Atlanta when my mama passed and then with the new job and then, you know, it seemed like it was too long to just call him up. I never meant to…”

“Rusty is just fine,” Sharon says. “He’s taking college courses now and working a little here and there. I bet he’d be happy to hear from you.” 

“He’s still with you, then?” she asks.

“As long as he wants to stay,” Sharon says. Brenda smiles, a real one, and it eases the pressure in Sharon’s chest just a little and Flynn looks relieved as well. 

The waiter comes back with the cocktails and Sharon takes hers and then points to Brenda. Sharon picks up the wineglass and hands it to the waiter without asking. Brenda watches the exchange sluggishly and then, when the waiter is gone says, “I might take a job in D.C.” 

“No kidding?” Flynn says. 

“Maybe,” Brenda says. She touches the stem of the martini glass and looks up at Flynn. “How are you Andy? You look real good.”

“I’m fine,” he says. “My daughter got married.”

“Congratulations,” Brenda says. “That’s wonderful.”

“Eat something,” Sharon says to her. “Don’t wait for us.” 

She takes a few bites and then the rest of the food comes. Sharon talks a little more about Rusty and they talk about the squad - Mike’s son in college and Provenza’s new friend Patrice that makes Brenda’s eyes go wide.

Flynn pays the bill and Sharon doesn’t fight it. 

“Andy, if you take me back to my car, I’ll drive Brenda home,” Sharon says. 

“No problem,” he says.

It’s not usually how they do things. He won’t come home with her now, she won’t fix them decaf or herbal tea. He won’t pick her up in the morning. They’ll talk about it later, perhaps, or they won’t. She and Brenda aren’t exactly friends, but Sharon always felt that they could be under different circumstances and now the circumstances have changed. 

Brenda sits in the back and Flynn takes them right to where Sharon left her car parked.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Brenda says. “It was real nice seeing you again.”

“Don’t be a stranger,” he says. “Come by any time.” 

When they’re situated in Sharon’s car, Flynn drives off and Sharon starts the engine.

Brenda reaches over and touches her forearm, her fingers warm on the soft gray of Sharon’s sleeve.

“Please don’t take me home,” she says. She’s so quiet that Sharon almost doesn’t make it out and Brenda won’t look her in the eye. Sharon sucks in a breath, concern lodging sharply in her ribs. 

“Okay,” Sharon says. 

She started this date with Andy Flynn but she can end it with Brenda Leigh Johnson. The steps can stay just the same.

oooo

Rusty is home when they get in, sitting on the sofa with a textbook on his lap and dirty dishes spread out on the coffee table. She’d tried to train him to eat at the table but she’d given up on that long ago. He’s too used to being alone and he likes the television for company. If she were home more, maybe, but she isn’t and so this she lets slide. Ricky had told her that she’d gone soft in her old age but Ricky misses a lot very obvious things as far as Rusty is concerned. 

“Hi,” he calls. 

“Hi, honey,” she says. 

“Hey, the plumber called about the kitchen sink and said it’s probably the disposal so-”

He stands up, turns and sees who is with Sharon and stops abruptly. 

“Hi there,” Brenda says, a little meekly. 

“I thought you were going out with Lieutenant Flynn,” Rusty says.

“I did,” Sharon says. She doesn’t offer an explanation past, “Brenda is here to have some tea and catch up. Would you like some tea?” 

Rusty reaches for the remote and shuts the TV off. 

“No, thank you,” he says. “I can get out of your way.”

“You don’t have to go,” Brenda says, but Rusty takes his dishes, rushes past them and puts them in the sink and then gives them a tense smile.

“I have to go to bed,” he says. “Goodnight.”

And then he’s gone, down the hall and Brenda looks stricken.

“He’s not great with change,” Sharon says into the silence of her living room. What he’s not good with is getting left behind but it seems cruel to word it like that. “Anyway, put down your things. Have a seat. I’ll put on the kettle and then we can have a little chat.”

Her phone buzzes and it’s Andy, making sure everyone got home okay. She texts him back that she’s fine and they’ll talk in the morning. She leaves Brenda out of it completely. 

She puts the water on and then sits at the table where Brenda has slipped her small self into one of the dining chairs. 

“All right,” Sharon says. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?” 

Brenda’s eyes are big and well up slowly, like she’s trying not to cry but it’s obviously a losing battle. 

“Well,” she says. “I guess I lost my mama.”

Then she presses her face down into her arms and lets out a muffled sob.

The kettle starts to scream.

oooo

She’d put Brenda to bed on the sofa but when she wakes up at 5:00 to put on coffee and sort out how everyone is going to get to work and school on time, Brenda is already gone. She’d left a little note thanking Sharon and saying that she’d called a cab. The note on her counter is anchored by one Hershey’s kiss in silver foil and laughter bubbles up in her chest. 

On the bottom, she’d left her cell phone number. Sharon has it, of course, has had it for years, but Brenda knows that. Leaving it is more like permission to use it. 

Andy Flynn is the first real friend she’s made in years. Can she even handle two friends?

She takes a shower, washes her hair and then twists it up in a towel. By the time Rusty wakes up, she’s got on nylons and a slip and has blown out her hair shiny and dry. She’s standing in front of her closet with a mug of coffee. Rusty pokes his head into her room and says nothing about finding her half dressed with no make up, just says, “I didn’t hear her leave.”

“She left very early, I think,” Sharon says. 

“Oh.”

“She’s been going through a rough time, I gathered,” Sharon says. “It’s not an excuse, everyone has rough patches, but I think if you were inclined to forgive her…?” She trails off. 

“I thought you two couldn’t stand each other,” he says. He comes in, perches on the edge of Sharon’s rumpled bed. Emily used to always watch her get ready in the morning - especially the make up. She always begged for a swipe of mascara, some shiny gloss on her little lips. Sharon had rarely given in to make up requests, but would often let Emily walk around the room in a pair of heels. 

“No,” Sharon says and then stops, gives him a sly grin. “Professionally, we struggled, yes.”

“So now that she’s not your boss you’re like bffs?”

“It’s a little different. I like Brenda just fine when she’s not ordering me around and it’s clear she could use someone to talk to. I thought you did like Brenda.”

“I mean,” he says. “I wouldn’t have you without her, so…”

Sharon walks over and kisses the top of his head. 

“I couldn’t stand Jack the first time I met him and then I married him a year later so you can’t always tell about people.”

“You think Jack is a good example?” Rusty asks in disbelief.

“No,” she snorts. “I guess not.” 

“I’m going back to bed,” he says.

“Don’t sleep through your classes,” she calls, but she knows he won’t.

She chooses a tight black pencil skirt and a dark blue blouse, does her make up and then slips on a black blazer. Navy heels, picks up her bag. She taps lightly on Rusty’s door, says, “Love you” even if he sleeps through it. 

At work, Andy looks at her questioningly and she just shrugs. She’s not going to share what Brenda confessed to her, about her dead mother, about how having a boring job is making her reckless in other ways, about how deeply she resents Fritz for having her old rank at her old place of employment. 

They pick up a case, a gang shooting and thoughts of anything else are put on hold.

oooo

Rusty agrees to go with Sharon to meet Brenda for coffee on a Sunday morning. It had been Brenda’s idea - they’ve been texting back and forth just a little bit but it’s been weeks since she’s seen her. 

Sharon almost cancels. She and Flynn had gone to a late movie and when she wakes up, her whole body is sore and her throat tickles just a little like she’s getting a cold. Then she realizes it's raining and she just wants to burrow back into her bed and wait for all of February to be over, like a groundhog who predicts six more weeks of winter. She’ll just sleep through till spring, thank you very much.

But she feels guilty enough about skipping church for a coffee date that she can’t skip both. 

She skips the shower, instead just washing her face and putting on light make up and pinning her hair up so that no one can tell right away that it is dirty. She wears jeans and an oversized button down shirt. She goes to wake up Rusty, but he’s up already watching infomercials on the television, eating a bowl of cereal. 

“I don’t think I want to talk about the trial or anything like that,” he says. 

“You don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to,” she assures him. 

“How was the movie?” he asks. “How was your date?”

“Just friends,” she says. “Movie was fine.”

“You know he’d like marry you in a second, right?” Rusty teases. 

“When you get to my age, marriage isn’t the sole goal of relationships anymore,” she tells him. “Companionship means different things.” 

“Did you kiss him?” Rusty asks.

“What?” she says. “No!”

“Then you two are not on the same page,” Rusty says. 

She glares at him. “Go brush your teeth, we have to go.” 

They’re a few minutes late because any amount of rain makes LA drivers into unhinged monsters and the traffic is unexpectedly dense. They are meeting at a cafe and bakery downtown - it seems like if they are close to work it is safe territory. Nothing too close to the condo or close to where Brenda lives with Fritz. 

“We’ve passed like seven hundred Starbucks,” Rusty complains.

“She picked the place,” Sharon says. They find parking on the street, though metered, and have to walk about a block and a half. Rusty has a hood and Sharon pulls a little black umbrella out of her purse. She offers to share it with him, but he declines and they walk quickly toward the glass door of the cafe. 

Brenda stands when she sees them. She has her hair back in a ponytail and has one a white t-shirt and yoga pants and running shoes like she’s on her way to the gym. Maybe she is - maybe it’s what she’d told Fritz. Sharon collapses her umbrella and Rusty stays just a step behind her lingering in the doorway while Brenda waves at them hopefully. She’s got a huge ceramic mug already at the table and a plate with most of a large brownie.

Sharon smiles, making an effort to be friendly and open which is not, necessarily, her nature.

“Hi you two,” Brenda says. “I was startin’ to worry!”

“It’s raining,” Rusty says. He says it with no small amount of accusation in his voice, like not only was Brenda stupid not to notice the rain but she might also even be the cause of it. Sharon reaches into her purse and pulls out her wallet, a slim black Coach design that Emily had given her for her birthday two years ago. 

“Coffee,” she says to him. “Go.”

“I would have gotten you something but,” Brenda says, shrugging. “I didn’t know what you’d want.” 

Sharon sits, peers into Brenda’s mug. It looks like hot chocolate though it’s probably a mocha. She can see that it had come with whipped cream, though it’s mostly gone now.

“How are you?” Sharon asks. 

“Oh, fine, fine,” she says. “It’s good to see you again. I know the last time I was kind of a mess so I just wanted to make a better impression this time.”

Sharon barks out a laugh before she can help herself and Brenda jumps back, a little surprised.

“Oh honey,” Sharon says, reaching out to touch her arm. “The time for good impressions has long passed. That’s not what I’m interested in at all.” Sharon smiles in a way that is not at all disarming. 

“I… what do you mean interested in?” she asks.

“All of this,” Sharon says. “A few weeks ago and the texts and the emails. The honesty, Brenda. All of it is because you’d like to be friends, right?” 

“I thought we were friends,” Brenda says. “Friendly, anyway.” 

“I’ll be your friend,” Sharon says. “I like you, I really do, there’s something about you that I like despite myself but let’s not pretend that we don’t know what we know about one another.”

Brenda nods. “Fine.”

“It shouldn’t be hard to be friends, we just can’t over think it.”

“And just how many friends are you up to these days, Captain Raydor?” Brenda demands, falling back into their own, comfortable groove of bickering.

“Well now,” she says. “I guess I’m up to two. Three if you count Rusty.” 

Brenda laughs. She’s still giggling when Rusty comes back with two paper cups stacked on top of one another and a plate with a huge muffin. He sets it all down and flops into his seat. He sips the first cup, makes a face, and hands it off to Sharon. 

“Blueberry,” he says. “I thought we could share.” 

“Brenda and I were just negotiating our terms,” Sharon says to him. He looks between them both, confused. 

“For what?” he asks.

“Our friendship,” Sharon says. “So if you have any demands or issues concerning her hanging around us, speak now or forever hold your peace.” 

Brenda squares her shoulders, ready to withstand whatever he throws her way.

“You two are so weird,” he says. “Cops, man.” 

“No, come on, come on, I can take it,” she says. 

“I don’t have, like, demands,” Rusty says. “Just maybe don’t disappear again without warning. I have a thing about that.”

Brenda’s eyes soften. “Okay,” she says.

“So I guess that means no job in D.C.?” Sharon asks. She wants Brenda to lay it all on the line right away for Rusty’s sake and for hers. Brenda shoots a look at her like she thought Sharon was on her side, but she’s on no one’s side, she just wants the truth. No lies, Brenda Leigh. Not this time. 

“What?” Rusty says. “You’re leaving? Then why the hell are we even bothering with this?”

“No,” Brenda says. “No, no, I turned that job down.” 

“Oh,” Rusty says. 

“See?” she says. “Open and honest.”

“Why don’t you tell Brenda about some of the classes you are taking this semester. Tell her about Badge of Justice.” Sharon says. She breaks off a piece of the top of the sweet muffin and it’s sticky to the touch. She pops it into her mouth and it’s so, so sweet. Something she’d never buy for herself but now she can indulge nonetheless. 

Rusty and Brenda make stilted conversation that starts to ease up over the course of the hour. Sharon tries only to interject when they seem to stall out and then she does so only with gentle nudges. And then the cups are empty and the pastries eaten and Sharon sees Brenda glance at her phone to check the time.

“We should get going,” Sharon says to Rusty, saving Brenda from having to be the one to bring things to a close. “I’m sure the Chief Investigator has plenty to do today.” 

“Yeah,” Rusty says. “I’m just going to go to the bathroom first.”

He stands, brushes crumbs off of his laps and then goes down the narrow hallway to where the bathroom is in this establishment.

“How’s Fritz?” Sharon asks. It had seemed, last time, like Brenda had just been on the edge of giving in or giving up with her husband and Sharon is curious to know just how things shook out. It’s none of her business but then, it is the sort of thing that friends discuss.

“I was married once before, you know,” Brenda says. “It didn’t last very long and I had married him mostly because I was mad at Will and I thought, well, if I could have what Will had. A marriage, a whole put together life, that I could be happy without him just like he was happy with his wife and without me.”

“How did that work out?” Sharon asks. 

“Will wasn’t happy, as it turned out and that was two wives ago, now,” Brenda says. “And my first marriage never felt put together, not ever. I rushed out of it as fast as I rushed into it and I thought, well good, I learned that lesson, now I won’t have to make that mistake again.” 

Sharon compresses her lips together. 

“I put off marrying Fritz for ages. I just dragged my feet so hard I think there were grooves in the aisle all the way up to the altar!” She smiles, but shakes her head and the smile doesn’t hold. “I tried to tell him. I’m just not a good wife. I have a lot of skills but that ain’t one of ‘em.” 

“He knew what he was getting into,” Sharon tells her. He had to have. 

“Maybe he thought he could change me? That if I cared about him enough, all my selfishness, my flaws would just smooth out over time?” 

“If he thought that, then he’s an idiot,” Sharon says. “Look at my ex-husband. I know a thing or two about not being able to change people.” 

She rolls her eyes. “I don’t know what it is, exactly, that he wants, Sharon! He was mad when I was in danger all the time but now that I’m cooped up in the office doing paperwork and playing politics, he seems to hate that too!”

“You guys should come to dinner,” Sharon says. “I’ll cook. Invite Andy. Get you out of your house for awhile, do something different.” 

“You want me and Fritz to come to your house?” Brenda somehow looks both pleased and highly suspicious. 

“Obviously you guys could use some friends, right? And I mean, you know us from work but we’re no longer work friends.” Sharon offers a flimsy explanation, enough for Brenda to bite at. If she wants to. 

“Well,” she drawls. “Not for Fritzi, but for me, I suppose that’s true.”

Rusty comes out of the bathroom and plops back into his seat.

“I’ll text you,” Sharon says. “We’ll make plans.” Everyone stands. 

“Oh Rusty, it was so nice to see you again,” Brenda says. “Come on, give me a hug.” 

Rusty obliges her, allows himself to be hugged though he doesn’t hug back. And then Brenda surprises Sharon by hugging her as well. She pats Brenda’s back softly, feeling the sharp jut of her shoulder blade. She’s lost some weight and there wasn’t ever much there to begin with. Brenda eats when she’s happy and she eats when she’s stressed but does she eat when she’s unhappy? Apparently not. 

She smells sweet, though, soft and feminine in a way Sharon absolutely associates with the south. Fragrant flowers and sugary tea. It must be something in her lotion, the way it clings to her skin and her clothes. 

“Bye now,” she says, patting Rusty on the shoulder.

It’s not raining anymore, but everything is still wet and the awnings drip as they make their way back to the car with just a few minutes left on the meter. She unlocks it and Rusty slips in, slouching in the passenger’s seat. She puts her purse and her umbrella in the backseat and then gets in, sighing.

“Not so bad, right?” she says, turning over the engine and starting up the car. She has to flick on the windshield wipers and turns on her lights, just in case the rain starts again.

“I mean,” Rusty says, fastening his seat belt. “What even are you doing here, really?”

“What?” she asks.

“With Brenda? What do you get out of this? What’s your endgame?”

“Are you friends with people to see what you can get out of them?” she demanded, pulling into traffic. “Because I have to say, Rusty-”

“No, but,” he shrugs. “You always like supremely disliked each other.”

“We disliked working together,” Sharon corrects. “But now we don’t.”

“So it’s just fine then?” he asks, sounding baffled. 

“We’ll see,” Sharon says. To be perfectly honest, she’d even grown to like working with Brenda or at least respected the woman’s working style even if she couldn’t condone it. But their animosity had been so high-profile at first that even when they’d gelled later on, no one could ever get over that first impression.

Then she’d been gone so quickly. 

“What if she’s just getting close to you and me again because we’re getting closer to the trial,” Rusty asks. 

“If that is the case,” Sharon says. “And I don’t think it is, but if that turns out the be the case then that’s not a friendship and our contact will cease.”

Rusty is quiet, considering this.

“I know it’s difficult to trust people,” she says. “It’s not easy for me either.”

“So it doesn’t get better?” he asks.

“It gets… different,” she says. “You get better. Learn how to read people, suss out what it is they’re after.” 

“And if I’m not a detective?” Rusty demands.

She smiles. “You’ll be fine.” 

And she really believes he will be.

oooo

Andy is skeptical, in life generally, but specifically now. Specifically in regards to having dinner with Brenda and Fritz. 

“But why?” he says for not the first time. “I thought you didn’t even like the Chief.”

She closes her eyes briefly both at the fact that everyone on Major Crimes calls Brenda the Chief no matter what she is or where she goes and that no one can see that they didn’t hate each other at the end. She considers sending out a department wide memo that just says _I don’t hate Brenda Leigh Johnson_ and signing her name but that seems childish.

“And Fritz is a nice enough guy but not really someone I’d want to be buddies with,” Andy barrels on either ignoring Sharon’s pained expression and missing it entirely.

“Andy!” she says. “I am not soliciting your opinion on whether or not to have the dinner party, I am only inviting you to attend!”

This shuts him up.

“Would you like to come or not?” she presses.

“Yeah,” he says. “Sure.” 

“Saturday at 6:30,” she says, going back to her expense report. When she glances up a few moments later, he’s still standing there looking a little confused. “Dismissed.” 

He makes an expression that borders on insubordination, but leaves. 

By Saturday morning, though, she finds she wouldn’t be opposed to getting a murder and calling the whole thing off. Rusty is gone all day, first driving out to the prison to see his mother, an activity that always puts him in a foul mood beforehand and then going to a study group for some large test he has coming up. She’s so proud of him, of everything he has accomplished so far, but she understands that school can be grueling and stressful and tries to give him a wide berth when he’s grumpy. 

“Should I come home or will that interrupt your weird double date?” he asks when he’s halfway out the door.

“You can come home whenever you’d like,” she assures him. “I will save you some food and some dessert.”

He still slams the door. Her neighbors across the hall always narrow their eyes at her when they see her now and she thinks it’s completely about Rusty slamming the door. Her neighbors also know she’s a cop, so they can glare all they want, they’re never going to say anything. 

Why she had decided to cook, she’ll never know. They could’ve just gone out, gone their separate ways. She spends the morning running errands - the market and the butcher’s shop to get a pork shoulder. She’s decided to make pulled pork and had reminded both Andy and Brenda that this wasn’t a fancy dinner party, just dinner with friends. No pressure, no stress. She’ll make messy food, wear jeans. It’ll be fine. 

She gets the pork into the crockpot as soon as she gets home and then does her regular Saturday chores. Laundry, dusting, floors. She rips the plastic off her dry cleaning and hangs it in her closet, taking everything off the wire hangers and putting it onto sturdy wooden ones. 

She keeps her phone in her hip pocket but wouldn’t you know, it never does ring.

She puts on some music when she starts cooking. The radio, first, but it is preset to some station that Rusty prefers so she switches on the CD player and it’s instrumental, classical, more calming. She keeps it low so it’s background music and it doesn’t take much thought. The whole place smells like the pork, even out into the hallway. She’s chopping cabbage for the coleslaw when her phone buzzes and it’s Andy offering to pick up dessert. She tells him yes, something chocolate. 

She stops to shower, to put on a pair of tight jeans that will fit into some soft soled boots and a large sweater, something comfortable. Andy arrives early with a chocolate mousse pie. He’s wearing slacks and a button down shirt but no tie so she figures unless he’s going to a baseball game, this is as dressed down as she’s going to ever get him. He puts the pie in the fridge and touches her shoulder in greeting and it’s nice, familiar but not oppressively so. She puts him to work setting the table and then gives him a box of matches and has him light all the candles - the ones on the table and the little ones she has placed all over the apartment, even in the guest bathroom so that the place seems warm and inviting and smells sweet instead of smelling like the lemon scent of her floor cleaner and cooking meat. 

“Where is Rusty this evening?” Andy asks.

“Studying,” she says. 

“Like actually studying or you think he has some sort of, I dunno, date?” Andy asks.

She shrugs one shoulder. She doesn’t think he has a date, he’s not particularly good at concealing things like that but also Rusty still is skittish when it comes to romance. Romance and violence are still so much one in the same to the boy that she thinks it’s good he’s not in any real rush. 

Her classical CD ends and the CD player shifts over to the next disc in the player, something a little more jazzy. Nice, but not right for the evening. She picks the remote up and shuts the stereo off, turns to Andy and smiles. She hadn’t expected him to be so early and now there’s still another 30 minutes before the others are supposed to arrive.

“Why don’t you put on the television while I finish up in here,” she says. He knows she wants him out of her way so he gives in without a fight. She moves the pork to the oven to cook down the liquid a little and works on the potatoes. 

“It smells amazing,” Andy says. “For what it’s worth.”

“It’s worth a lot, thank you,” she says. 

At 6:40, she’s beginning to worry that the Johnson-Howard household has blown her off but then she hears the knock and feels herself both relax a little and then flush with a new wave of anxiety. Why did the idea of friendship and socialization outside of work make her so nervous? Was having friends really worth all of this?

“I got it,” Andy says. Sharon is pulling the pork and the rolls out of the oven and she’s thankful.

“My word, we could smell it in the elevator!” Brenda says, coming into the condo. “I’m so glad that smell is for us, otherwise I would’ve been so disappointed!”

“Thank you for having us,” Fritz adds. 

“Thanks for coming,” she says. Andy takes their coats to put in the coat closet and reaches for Brenda’s purse and there’s a small moment of fumbling where she digs her phone out of it before she lets him take it. 

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” she says. 

“Just Andy now, I guess,” he says with a smirk. 

Brenda is wearing jeans, too, and a pretty lavender blouse with a wide neck and it’s long, going down past her hips and it makes her look so small. Fritz is in jeans but a button down and a sport coat and then it’s Sharon, suddenly, who feels under dressed in her own home. Brenda has a bottle of red wine and she sets it on the counter, makes a big show of looking around and saying, “You have a lovely home, Captain.” 

Which is strange considering she’s been here before but what Brenda wants to keep from her husband is her own business. 

“Thank you,” Sharon says, pulling two wine glasses from the cupboard. She prefers white wine, has a bottle of it in the refrigerator, but she’ll drink red to be polite. She hands over the bottle opener to Brenda and turns to Fritz.

“And what can I get you, Chief Howard?” 

“I’d be happy with water,” he says. She fills two glasses with ice and water and gives one each to the men. 

Brenda gets the cork out and hesitates. “I guess it should breathe,” she says.

She doesn’t look as sleek and closed off as the night in the Italian restaurant and that seems good, but she still doesn’t seem herself. The outfit, the little ballet flats she has on, her hair so big and wavy and wild around her face. She realizes she can count the times she’s seen Brenda in pants on one hand and she’s usually so coiffed, so presentable. This, while lovely, lacks effort. She lacks polish. 

She doesn’t seem happy. 

The men have migrated back to the television where there’s football on and Brenda slides onto one of the bar stools and lets her chin rest in one hand. 

“How’s the murder room?” she asks. 

“Well,” Sharon says. “People keep dying.”

“You didn’t get called in today,” she points out. 

“Nope,” Sharon says. “I can’t decide if it’s because no one died or because Taylor is so tightfisted with overtime that he shunted everything to Robbery-Homicide.” 

“I can’t say I miss him much,” she says, grabbing the bottle like she’d been patient enough and pouring them both two generous glasses of the merlot. “Red is okay with you, right?”

“Yes,” Sharon says. “Thank you.” 

Brenda glances behind her and whispers, “Fritz doesn’t even like football.”

Sharon shrugs. “Men.”

“Sometimes I wonder why we even bother with them at all,” Brenda says. “You were married before, right, Captain?”

“I was,” she says. “For almost thirty years.”

“How did you do it?” Brenda asks, still speaking low.

Sharon leans in. “By not living with him for twenty of those years.” 

“Well there’s an idea I haven’t tried,” she says and takes a big drink of her wine. 

Dinner is fine - the food is good. Cooking is something Sharon has always been good at and likes to do. They talk about work superficially, telling the funny stories, leaving the horror out because they all already know about that part and talking about it never really helps. They talk a little about Rusty, about the classes he’s taking but Sharon doesn’t want to talk about him too much when he’s not here, especially if he walks in later. 

Fritz’s phone rings just when they’re clearing the table and he excuses himself to take it out in the hall. Sharon is bringing the pie out and the dessert plates when he comes back, already looking sort of apologetic. If it were a real work call, he would already been gone - this seems more like the call he had arranged so they didn’t have to stay too late. But Brenda starts to stand just as he starts to sit and his elbow knocks into the hand she has holding her wine glass and she sloshes red wine all down her front.

“Oh for heaven’s sake!” 

“Come on,” Sharon says. “Into the bathroom.”

She grabs a bottle of white wine from the refrigerator and hustles after Brenda, pausing only to grab stain remover from the shelf in the laundry closet. The guest bathroom isn’t huge, but big enough to fit them both with the door closed and Brenda is already dabbing at the spreading stain with a wad of toilet paper.

“Take it off,” Sharon says.

“What?” 

“Take off your shirt!” Her tone doesn’t leave room for argument, so Brenda whips the blouse off and hands it over. Sharon uncorks the white wine with her teeth and pours a little on the stain, letting it soak for just a moment. She hands off the bottle to Brenda who takes it and then covers the wine stain with the gel of the stain remover. 

“Well shit,” Brenda says. 

Sharon glances up at her. Brenda’s hair is messy from the blouse going over her head, she’s holding the wine and her bra is black and stark against her pale skin. 

“You’d think a red wine aficionado like yourself would know that with wine stains, you can’t let it set.”

“It’s just a shirt, Sharon,” Brenda says. 

The bathroom smells like vanilla, like the candle Andy had lit for them a few hours ago. Sharon looks her over again, her sharp shoulders, her impossibly flat stomach.

“You’ve lost a lot of weight,” Sharon says, finally.

“I have my mama’s metabolism,” Brenda says. Her face falls a little and then she takes a swig from the open bottle of wine. Sharon reaches out, touches her shoulder and lets her hand slide down the cool skin of her arm. 

“You didn’t eat very much tonight, either,” she points out.

“Saving room for dessert.”

“Brenda-”

“Don’t mother me!” Brenda snaps. Sharon is still holding on to her wrist and doesn’t let go. “It’s fine that I don’t know what I’m doin’ but I don’t need you to point it out to me, too.”

“I’m not,” she says. 

Brenda sinks warily down onto the closed toilet. She looks up at Sharon who is still holding the shirt in her free hand. 

“When I was in college, I lived my senior year in the sorority house. It was this big ole brick house with six bedrooms and twelve of us lived there, we shared. It was fun, you know, expensive as hell but my daddy was happy to pay because the dorms were coed and he liked the idea with me living with all these girls, like we’d keep each other safe somehow. My roommate was this woman named Evelyn and she had dark hair like yours.”

Sharon feels uneasy and sits down on the edge of the tub. Rusty never remembered to close the curtain. 

“Evelyn,” Sharon says. 

“Evie, everyone called her. She was real pretty, real well liked but she never seemed… happy to be there, you know. Like she always had a secret.” Brenda grips the wine bottle so hard that the glass squeaks against the skin of her fingers. “Well I’ve always been good at getting to secrets and I just, you know, I just never let up in her. I was always after whatever it was that she was hiding and I was relentless and though I didn’t know it at the time, I was just terribly unkind.” 

“Unkind?” Sharon asks. She realizes she’s twisted the shirt hard in her hands now and forces herself to relax, to untwist the fabric. She should offer to give it back or to put it in the wash. She should offer to get Brenda something else to wear. But there’s something about the way her shoulders are sloping down, the way she’s not shy about the skin that shows, the curve of breast that is bare and Sharon knows that if she cuts her off now, she’ll be cutting off Brenda for life. That this fledgling friendship won’t survive it. 

“One night after a party we walked back to the house together a little drunk, you know how it is. And we were holding hands and I was making fun of this baseball player who was sweet on me and we were laughing.” Brenda smiles at the memory, staring down into her lap. And then she looks up at Sharon, eyes dark but clear. “And she kissed me.” 

The candle behind Brenda flickers. 

“I got to figure out her secret anyway,” Brenda shrugs. “But that sort of thing wasn’t done and I wasn’t particularly kind about telling her so but it wasn’t… it wasn’t that it wasn’t a good kiss, I was just scared of her, scared of my daddy. It was Georgia and I was just a kid, really.” 

She has to say something now. “I think that’s normal,” she says, her voice rough and her throat dry. “Especially in college. I don’t think I would have handled it any better.”

“You handle everything better,” she says and takes another drink from the bottle. “My brother Jimmy is gay and he’s the only one I ever told this story to. It was a few years later and I just… I’d been worrying about it ever since and he said, Brenda Leigh, straight people just don’t worry over whether or not they’re straight.” 

The knock on the door makes them both jump visibly and Sharon drops the shirt to the floor.

“Sharon?” Andy says through the door. “You guys okay in there?” 

“Yeah,” she says. “Give us a minute, please.” She sounds calmer than she feels. They can hear Andy’s steps receding down the hall. “I’m going to get you something to wear.”

Brenda reaches up and snags her wrist when Sharon stands and says, “I hadn’t thought about Evie for years and years and then the first time you came to my crime scene, the very first time, you remember that? You had on that dark trench coat and you were so… it was the first time I’d thought of Evie again. When I saw you.” 

Sharon grips the hand on her wrist but for once she doesn’t know quite what to say.

oooo

They pick up a murder and life goes back to normal again, whatever that is. They’re too busy to worry about their personal lives, resources too thin, nerves too frayed. Sharon isn’t sleeping well and Rusty finds her more than once sitting on the sofa in the middle of the night, watching TV with tired eyes. If she’s home at all. 

Brenda’s shirt comes out of the wash clean and stain free and Sharon hangs it in her closet and it hangs there still, hangs there until one day D.D.A. Hobbs shows up to negotiate a deal with one of her murderers and she carries with her a small paper bag and gives it to Sharon.

“What’s this?” she asks.

“It’s from Chief Investigator Johnson,” Hobbs says. “She saw I was coming over here and asked me to give it to you.”

Inside is the beige tank top and the brown sweater that Sharon had loaned her that night, but they smell sweet like they’d been washed in unfamiliar detergent. 

She feels ridiculous and she feels cruel. She takes the bag, the paper crinkling under her fingers and practically hurls into her office. She only wishes she had time to deal with that now, but she follows Hobbs and Provenza into the interrogation room. 

It’s hours later when she finally sinks into her office chair, pushes off her heels under her desk and flexes her toes. The paper bag is still on her desk. She picks up her office phone and dials Brenda’s office before she loses her nerve but it rings and rings until her voicemail picks up and so Sharon slams the phone down.

She calls on her cell, no texts, no emails, calls her phone directly. It rings three times and then-

“Hello?” 

“Hi,” she says. 

“What can I do for you, Captain Raydor?” Brenda says, her tone clipped. 

“I just wanted to thank you for returning my clothing and I was hoping to do the same for you,” she says. Which is not exactly right. Andy darkens her door, comes in without a wave and sits in the chair across from her. It’s the kind of relationship they have now, one she has allowed. 

“I work just down the street from you, I’m sure any member of your squad would be happy to run your errand,” she says.

Andy’s watching her, is looking at her mouth when she says, “Brenda, I…” 

Andy’s face betrays little, but it’s not nothing. He shifts his mouth like if he were chewing on a toothpick, it would have moved from one side to the other. 

“You what, Sharon?” she says. “What do you have to say to me?”

“I just needed to think for a little while,” Sharon says. “I just wanted to tell you that it was… was a pleasure to have you over for dinner. That maybe we could make it a regular thing?”

She closes her eyes tight, blocks Andy out and agonizes through the long, long pause on the other end of the call. She can hear the TV in the background, can imagine Brenda standing in another room, her back to her husband, her cat winding around her ankles. Brenda’s glasses hanging off her collar, her skirt swinging around her knees. 

“Can I call you later?” Brenda says. The ire in her voice has diminished significantly and she’s speaking softer, now, too. “Maybe in a couple hours?”

“Yes,” Sharon says, her voice strong now. “Yes, that would be fine.” Andy waves and Sharon nods. “Lieutenant Flynn sends his regards as well.”

Brenda chuckles low in her throat and says. “Me too, Captain. Talk to you soon, now.”

“Bye,” she says and ends the call. Andy smiles at her, lopsided and warm and kind.

“You two okay?” he asks. 

“Yes,” Sharon says and nothing more.

“It’s crazy, you guys being friends. Just feels crazy.” Andy has known Sharon for longer, but she’d still wager he knows Brenda better than he knows her, though not by much. 

“Can’t you see it?” Sharon asks. 

“Yeah,” he says. “But we all worry that one day the two of you will be running Los Angeles and we’ll all be your slaves or something.”

“Oh,” she says, closing her laptop. “That’s the goal but I have a feeling you’d be willing slaves.” 

He laughs, stands up and cocks his head.

“Can I buy you dinner?”

“Sure,” she says. She picks up her purse and slings it over her shoulder - grabs the paper bag. 

He points. “What is that?”

“Oh this?” she says, holding the bag up. “This is just something for later.”

He doesn’t ask more, just says, “I’ll drive.”

“Sounds good,” she says, turning out the light in her office. 

oooo

Rusty is home when she gets in, sleeping on the couch with the television on low. She takes the remote gently from his hand and turns the television off, clicks the lamp and the room softens into darkness. She crouches down and kisses Rusty’s forehead. He stirs.

“Don’t sleep out here all night, okay?” she says. He grunts a little response. She can’t tell him what to do, but she can certainly suggest it. She pries off her shoes and carries them to her room, shutting the door behind her. Shoes in the closet and she hangs the blazer she’d worn but drops the skirt in the hamper for the dry cleaners. She pulls out her earrings and is thinking about washing her face, standing in her half slip and bra, when on the dresser, the phone in her purse starts to buzz.

She closes her hand around the pair of earrings, the metal posts digging into her palm hard, and moves to answer it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to lovely betas Beth and Zowie, keeping me on the straight and narrow.


End file.
